


Milestones

by toocoolforbeth



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M, Family, Future Fic, domestic kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toocoolforbeth/pseuds/toocoolforbeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most people spend ninety five percent of their lives in a blur of trains and paper; always working, rushing, to get to the next traffic light, the next weekend, the next promotion. It seemed as if the human existence was centered on these milestones, these birthday candles and bouquets. Everything else was just trivial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milestones

Most people spend ninety five percent of their lives in a blur of trains and paper; always working, rushing, to get to the next traffic light, the next weekend, the next promotion. It seemed as if the human existence was centered on these milestones, these birthday candles and bouquets. Everything else was just trivial.

And that’s how you live, and your family in those years after the battle. Your life melted into endless nights of blood and sweat, struggles in dark alleyways and black dirt underneath your fingernails. And, once it was over, every night you stumble home as the sky above you rims green with the new day’s promise, bruises forming over tight muscle. And it isn’t sad, or unfortunate, not really, not always. It just is. 

But you dream of it, you do. At night when your eyes are glued shut and breathing almost steady, a picture show of blood and fire. And a pile of sadness and grief, and you stood atop of it, and stared down on the chaos, knew it was your own, your own design. All the bodies and the foul stench of death was yours, and those demons with pits for eyes would gaze up at your face and call you messiah. And every night you wake up, a mess of sheets and sweat and unshed tears, gasping in the early morning air. Cool hands rest on your cheeks and you open your eyes and there she is, the same as always, never changing. She kisses you, and you rise from your despair and meet her halfway. You are not sad, or unfortunate, not when you are awake, not when her eyes meet yours and your world stops rolling beneath your feet. 

One night you sit together. The air is warm and sweet with midsummer humidity. A melody of sirens and car horns sound distant through the open window, and she smells like steam and baby powder. You tell her this, and she smiles like she’s remembering something from a more complicated time.

She tells you that you smell like sunshine and you wonder what sunshine actually smells like. She shrugs, and it’s something she can’t explain, she says. You are both silent for a few moments. Her mother still doesn’t like you, and she wouldn’t approve of these three am talks and the way her daughters’ bare body settles behind her thin cotton shirt. It starts to rain. 

Do you think we’ll last, you and me? She thinks for a moment, and your words hang. 

Yeah. You don’t? 

You watch her watch you. The street lights cast orange haze across her white skin, and you vow to yourself that one day you will count every freckle on her body, trace them with your tongue. 

No, no I think we’ll last. I hope we will. 

When you wake up again later that morning, she isn’t in the bed beside you. But you can hear her, singing from down the hall, slightly off tune, some mundane song from the radio you’ve only ever heard once or twice before. You follow her voice, and push those dreams to the back of your mind. 

They stay there, when the sun is up, but each night you close your eyes and they float to the surface again. 

So you try to change for them, don’t you? You take everything harsh and wrong and you mould it into something different, maybe something better. You close your mouth more often, learn to listen, to observe. You’ve always been obtusely aware of your body but now you tame it, because now you know what it can do, who it can hurt. 

Of course she notices this reform in you; Angel knows she notices everything else. But she doesn’t care since it doesn’t matter. You are still the same person because no one ever really changes. 

You grow up, the both of you. You watch your brother walk your sister down the aisle; watch as she promises herself to a shadowhunter of high esteem. But you know that there is a vampire boy, somewhere in Eastern Europe, that she is thinking of. And you hate him for not being there. 

One day you find you want to marry her. You’ve always wanted to be with her, but it doesn’t occur to you until you are older that you want to be tied to her, bound to her. So you buy her a ring, because you know that’s the kind of tradition she grew up with. You put it off though, as the nervousness fills you to the tips of your fingers. You do not plan. 

One Saturday morning you sit together in Central Park, the same as every other Saturday morning. An early summer breeze tosses the tree branches and a dappled light bathes the two of you, you on your back and her sitting up, squinting hard at notepaper. A streak of led stretches across her cheek. You ask her what she is drawing, the same way you ask her every Saturday morning and she smiles, looks up at you through red eyelashes and doesn’t answer, same as always. 

I love you. She looks up at you again, but properly this time. Somewhere through the trees a group of teenagers are laughing. You can hear them, their voices so light despite the crosses they carry on their shoulders. 

We should get married, she says. You’re almost insulted. 

Hey, that’s my line, you retort. She grins, wider. 

I know. I found the ring in your coat pocket weeks ago. When were you planning on asking me? 

You sit up, trying to look disapproving. It doesn’t work. What are you doing looking around in my pockets for? 

I was looking for a pen. Answer the question. 

You look down, suddenly very interested in shredding a fallen leaf. Its essence stains your fingers. It’s been, uh, tricky finding the right moment.

She smiles, like she knew it all along. A few moments pass. So? What do you think? 

A smile spreads like a forest fire across your face. 

She can see you, waiting up there at the altar for her, smiling like a child on Christmas morning. Her dress falls like water in the afternoon sun, pooling and shimmering around her feet and she is smiling at you like she has never seen anything more beautiful. You barely hear the Brother as he recites the marriage vows, and the marks feel like velvet being painted onto your skin. And all you can see or smell is her. 

Later that night, filled to the brim with warmth and champagne, you breathe in her essence between your teeth, coating your skin in her smell and drinking in every part of her. She whispers your name into your mouth as she bends beneath you, sifting between the sheets and you cannot remember a time when there was anything more important than her and this and your skin against hers. 

More time passes. They ask her to take over the institute in New Orleans. Of course they ask her. You have always been an excellent hunter, the best of your generation; but she is a leader, passionate and strong and so much better for the job than you could ever be. And you have never been prouder. The two of you occupy the city’s institute, an old, ornate building in the center of the city, and together you fill it with furniture and art and life. 

The building is surrounded by long balconies, the highest of which you spend half your time on, settled on a wicker rocking chair, the paint so old it powders and flakes, staining your fingers and clothes. There you work, paper work and such for the institute and when that is done you read, books by the dozen that you had never been bothered with when you were younger. And you watch, with that old cat that came with the institute on your lap you watch the mundanes idly strolling by, never glancing twice at that old abandoned building. You wonder as you often do about how they would react if they were ever to look around and see what you see every day, the creatures lurking always in the shadows.

One day, you’ve been breathing in this house for three years and she finds you, curled up with the cat in that old rocking chair, rereading War and Peace for about the third time. She sits in the chair adjacent to yours and rests her feet on your lap. You put down your book and rest your hands on her smooth legs beneath the hem of her sundress. It is a glorious autumn day and you close your eyes. Her voice is soft.

Jace? You hum soft under your breath, acknowledging. Are you happy? There is a twinge to her voice, something sad. 

Of course I’m happy, you tell her and open your eyes. She is watching you with a strange intensity that would have made you run, had it been anyone else but her. Clary, what’s happened?

Her bottom lip shakes and when she smiles there are tears creating rivers over her cheeks. On the street below you can hear a car skid on the black asphalt road. The air between the two of you is timeless but you are overtly aware of the world around you as every sad ending runs through your head.

It’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know. For you to be happy. 

Something has changed and your heart beats rapidly in your throat. Clary, you start in hushed tones, talk to me, please. Are you sick? She shakes her head. 

No, no. Nothing’s wrong, love. It’s a good thing, it really is. 

Months later, once the weather has grown colder then warmer again, you wait outside the infirmary at the institute you now call your home. It is then that you realise for the first time what a mix of excitement and dread actually feels like, as you pace all restless up and down the hallway. Your movement makes her step father anxious and you sit down, for his sake. After hours of sweaty palms and nervous tapping, your mother takes you by the hand and leads you gently into the room. It smells strongly of antiseptic, but all you can see is her, flushed cheeks and weary eyes but a sweet smile commanding her expression. 

Before you can gather your bearings or say a word, you are being ushered into a seated position, and suddenly there is something warm and wriggling placed in your arms. And you don’t realise but your lips part in something like awe as you gaze down at that wrinkled chin and puffy eyes and rosebud lips. He is perfect and new, and his presence begins to fill you, as though you had been waiting your entire thirty years just to see his face. 

It comes as a shock to you, because you hadn’t thought your soul big enough to fit anymore love, when it was already filled to the brim with her. But no, something inside you has grown, and you feel as though you might burst, but in the best way possible. 

The next few days are a blur of visitors; the Silent Brothers, your family, her family, etcetera. Even the vampire makes an appearance. You barely have time to catch your breathe.  
But later that week, once the company lessens, you are finally alone. You find her this time; on the balcony you stumble upon them both. She is in nothing but one of your old tee shirts, watching cars pass on the street below, clutching the sleeping newborn to her chest. You had once thought of her as an angel but no, she wasn’t that. Angels are soldiers with cruel hearts. She is strong and fierce, but she has too much love, too much compassion in her to be a warrior of heaven. No, there is no need to compare her with some celestial being; what she is, that is more than you had ever dared to hope for. She is the better part of you. 

You don’t surprise her because she’s been waiting for you, like you knew she would be. The air is cool but tinted with sweetness and it holds promise for the three of you; promises of warmer days and sun and second chances. You wrap yourself around the both of them. 

You will be alright, Jace Lightwood. You have more than most. You have tasted her and created something new and beautiful with her. You have counted every freckle on her body. One day, you will count every line on her face and trace them with your fingertips. Your life has been hard, but it is time to stop mourning. It is time to stop counting on milestones, because life is so short and you have so much to take in.

It is getting late now, go to sleep. You will not dream tonight because that picture show of blood and grief has released you, like the souls you had to leave behind. It’s okay. You’re going to be alright now. You may sleep. You may rest. 

Tomorrow is new.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have this posted on fanfiction.net, but i decided i'd post it here as well.


End file.
